


the most dangerous thing is to love

by creabird



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Anal Sex, Bottom Proko, But Proko loves K, Cabeswater - Freeform, Dubious Consent, Forgery, Joseph Kavinsky Lives, Joseph Kavinsky is His Own Warning, M/M, Making Out, Picnics, Rimming, Violent Sex, wtf are these tags im sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:35:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26322757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/creabird/pseuds/creabird
Summary: Cabeswater at night: Prokopenko is a dream thing made of dream stuff. Kavinsky is cruel but Proko loves him anyway.
Relationships: Joseph Kavinsky/Prokopenko
Comments: 4
Kudos: 20





	the most dangerous thing is to love

**Author's Note:**

> this is a birthday gift for my friend and official trc bestie teddy i hope you enjoy it and it makes you cry

_today of all days, see_

_how the most dangerous thing is to love_

_achilles, achilles, achilles come down_

“K, where are we even going,” Prokopenko asked, his uneven shoulders slouched even further to one side by the heavy backpack Kavinsky was making him carry. He wasn’t too sure on its contents. Kavinsky, who was sauntering ahead of him, the tall grass reaching up to his jean-clad thighs, blinked back at him over the edge of his sunglasses, lazy grin spreading, only just visible in the twitching corner of his mouth and the harsh dimple in his cheek. There were stains on his white t-shirt and Prokopenko didn’t know if it was blood or ketchup.

“Why do you need to know, Proko? You’ll follow me anyway,” he said, rasping through the dry air catching in his dry throat. It sent shivers down Proko’s spine like a microscopic earthquake and he found that he couldn’t argue against that. Proko sometimes forgot he was not an independently sentient being like he used to be before that day. His soul was tethered to Kavinsky’s with red yarn, or maybe a chain, or a leash (possibly something very macabrely metaphoric). He just hummed, mind whirring in confusion at the paradox that was his own existence. Throughout the field they stomped, Kavinsky in sneakers that couldn’t even be identified as white anymore (he would just dream up new ones to wear tomorrow anyway) and Proko in his heavy boots and his dutifully worn Trasher hoodie.

By the end of it all – it, the infinite planes of waving grass surrounding them – was a tree line, with the sun setting behind it and piercing Proko’s un-sunglassed eyes painfully. He was squinting slightly, eyes twitching between the path ahead of him and the forest. The trees almost seemed to be glitching, jittering as with excitement. There was suddenly a gnawing dread in the pit of his stomach as if he had seen past this day’s reality (the dry heat of the sun beating down on them and a harsh breeze running through their hair) and looked his own grave right in the eye. His steps slowed just a bit, still steadily trotting on behind Kavinsky, but he noticed anyway.

“Move your ass, _dreamboy_ , we need to be in there before the sun is down,” he said, a hint of a smile detectable in his voice. Proko’s heart stuttered a bit in time with the syllables spoken – _dream-boy_. The leaves whispered along.

As they stepped between two twin-trees, the light shifted and it was a starry-night as suddenly as a pulled trigger or a punch to the jaw and his bones _ached_ , singing _home_ , but home in a terrible way, in the way that your room looks in a nightmare, familiar, but horribly _wrong_.

He walked onwards, and as the trees’ whispering turned half-coherent (it was Latin he knew, but he was very bad at Latin since Kavinsky always skipped and he only went where Kavinsky went except when Kavinsky told him to go somewhere else) he almost ran into K who now stood there, gazing somewhere secret hidden behind the dark tint of his sunglasses. It was as if Kavinsky could feel his breath hitching, as panic rose up his throat at the same time as his body relaxed into the cool air, because his cold hand found Proko’s and he interwove their fingers tightly as if to lock a tiny fluttering bird in the cage of their palms. Proko couldn’t remember if Kavinsky had ever held his hand before.

“There’s a blanket and shit in the backpack,” Kavinsky almost whispered and Proko felt a blush creeping up his ears involuntarily. Trying to regain some of his self-control, he joked:

“Are you taking me on a midnight-date, _babe_?” and Kavinsky let out a snort but didn’t deny it and peeled his fingers out of Proko’s giant hand to pluck a blue flower from the ground. In a mocking bow, he held it out to him, and let out:

“Everything for my dreamboy,” with a sigh. Proko turned away in humiliation (because Kavinsky didn’t mean that, because Kavinsky didn’t care about other people) and went to unpack the backpack, spreading out, truly, a picnic blanket, several cans of beer, a bottle of vodka and his favorite brand of cigarettes. As he slumped down towards the ground, which surprisingly wasn’t cold but seemed to emit the warmth of a living, breathing creature, Kavinsky slid down beside him and pushed the flower behind his own ear and Proko cracked an unreturned smile at him. Kavinsky gulped down possibly half of the vodka before he spoke again, shaking a cigarette from the pack and lighting it with a match, not a lighter. He threw it into a nearby bush but it didn’t catch fire. Rather it seemed to swallow the flame like a hungry fox.

“You know what this shithole is, Proko?” he asked, leaning back onto his right hand, head turned upwards where slivers of the night sky peaked between the tree tops. Clouds were rushing by, as if the sky was sped up to three times speed, sometimes slipping into slow-motion, stuttering. He, of course, knew somehow what this place was, but in his mouth, it didn’t have a name. It tasted like earth on his tongue. He, instead of answering, curled in on himself, his tall form shrinking into the shadowy forest ground (becoming one with the place, the stuff of he was made of) and hesitantly laid his cheek upon Kavinsky’s thigh, effectively stopping its nervous jittering. To his surprise, Kavinsky secured the cigarette in the corner of his mouth and curled his hand into Proko’s hair. It was probably greasy. Both the hand, and the hair.

“ _This_ is where I made you, a perfect forgery of yourself, in a dream” he said. The emotion in his throat was unrecognizable as these kinds of things seemed to be (impossible to know completely). Proko felt his own throat seizing up, in something akin to pain, something like betrayal at the foggy memory of his death day, the day he snapped out of existence, _except he didn’t_. He just wasn’t quite _himself_. He was Prokopenko as Kavinsky knew him. Some things were forever and entirely lost to the unknowingness of Kavinsky, to the secrets he had kept, the things about himself that even he did now not know anymore.

“I brought you right back, you know – it was hard,” Kavinsky said, and Proko was only left wondering for a fragment of a moment, whether he meant that _losing_ him was hard, so hard that he brought him back immediately, but of course, Joseph Kavinsky only took about 3.8 seconds to _wrench someone’s heart from out their chest_.

“I didn’t _regret_ it, you know, it did make for an almost unique opportunity,” he continued and Proko’s skin felt heated at the same time as he was shivering with a dreadful chill, “to _thieve_ you out from here and for you to exist _entirely_ as my creature,” he let out a sigh that was too close to a moan and it made Proko swallow bile, “you’re completely mine, dreamboy, _my dreamboy_ ,” he drawled, tongue heavy with alcohol. Proko felt tears crawling down his cheeks like acid. Kavinsky grabbed him by both his hair and his jaw, cigarette sizzling too close to his cheekbone for comfort where his fingers curled against it. His sunglasses were discarded beside him, and his almost black eyes glinted at Proko in the star-light like dark matter. Their lips touched as Kavinsky leaned down.

“Do you love me, darling?” he asked and Proko suppressed a sob, supernova love battling the black hole terror of the truth he knew.

“ _Joey_ ,” he positively whimpered and then, he was being kissed, not with passion and furiously, as Kavinsky usually kissed him (coming home after a street race lost, or a fight cut short, or a boy unwilling), but almost warmly, with pure adoration, the love for one’s perfect creation. He said, very quietly, “you are cruel,” and Kavinsky smiled against his mouth. Kavinsky hissed as Proko clutched his t-shirt, knuckles brushing his stomach. It was the 7th of July.

His neck cramped, stuck in this awful position, so he threw one leg over Kavinsky’s lap and even though he was much bigger K didn’t even blink at the weight of him crushing his thighs. Proko ducked his head to be kissed once more but Kavinsky laughed straight in his face.

“You’re so fucking _lost_ , man,” he said and Proko flinched just a little. And he probably would’ve been, if he was still who he used to be, but he was a new thing, made of entirely new molecules, _dream stuff_ , and Kavinsky probably programmed him like a robot to love him unconditionally and entirely, full of pain. Annoyed, Proko kissed him instead.

Dirty, with tongue, and with teeth clacking, catching on Kavinsky’s already split lip from where Ronan had punched him those few nights ago. He wanted to catch it between his teeth and rip it away, so that _he_ would be gone from K’s body. He growled at the thought of it, but Kavinsky was a hellhound of a thing, smelling violent thoughts from a mile away, so before he could even pull away to attack, there was a hand around his throat and his back was on the ground. His head hit a tree root beside their blanket and he bit his tongue with a moan.

Kavinsky stared down at him with those dark, scary fucking eyes, blood-shot and the bags under his eyes were almost black from lack of sleep – or a punch (it was unknown).

“You tryna fuck me, Proko?” he snarled (Proko was pretty sure a bit of spit hit his cheek) and he bared his teeth, red with blood from his ripped tongue,

“Fuck you,” he spit out, suddenly so full of rage it was almost unbearable. How could he, how _dare_ Kavinsky fucking _kill_ him just to make him again, but all _wrong_ , all _fucked up_ and so fucking helplessly in _love_. Kavinsky’s hand was now grabbing his cheeks, squeezing them painfully as he positioned himself between Proko’s legs,

“None of that, sweetheart,” he cooed, smiling at him mockingly, “be a good boy, now, or I’ll leave you fucking _unrecognizable_ in this hellhole and just make a nicer version of you,” Proko was crying again, because he would, he would just make him again and he would never leave him alone until he was dead in the ground himself. Next thing he knew, his hoodie was discarded in the dirt and his pants pulled off and the only thing left on him was his gold chain, of course, like a fucking collar, but that wasn’t enough for Kavinsky, who was leaning down over him.

“Let me mark you up all pretty, huh, darling?” and went to biting at his neck and collarbones cruelly.

“Joey,” he said, breathless, because he loved the pain of it. This earned him a smile and a kiss to the corner of his mouth. He felt Kavinsky’s hands all over his body, touching, petting, scratching, and he moaned as he squeezed the flesh right under the swell of his ass. Was that the leg that had _K_ tattooed on it or was it the other one? He couldn’t remember.

It must’ve been the right one because now Kavinsky was kissing the spot and humming against his skin in satisfaction and Proko’s legs trashed at the sensation of it. Kavinsky snarl/grinned up at him from between his legs, head resting against his thigh, kissing the inside of his knee and Proko knew what was coming and whimpered.

“Ya want me to eat you out, baby?” he asked, and Proko expected him to just move ( _thief_ ), but he didn’t, still grinning up at him with those perfectly fucking white teeth (his left front tooth was chipped at the corner and it always left a recognizable mark on his pale skin). He nodded, finally, once it was clear that Kavinsky wanted him to _want_ it. He didn’t see the slap to his ass coming and it came down hard and he yelped.

“Then _beg_ for it, _dreamboy_ ,” Kavinsky said and he shuddered. His eyes squeezing close at the horrible feeling of humiliation, maybe because he felt like someone was watching them. He gulped, his mouth suddenly much too dry, tongue heavy.

“P-please, Kavinsky,” he pressed out but he knew it wasn’t enough as he felt Kavinsky’s hand on his thigh tighten, fingers digging into the flesh. He whined,

“Please, Joey, need it, please need your mouth on me please, just fuck me, Joey, _fuck_ ,” his voice broke a little as Kavinsky’s mouth was suddenly _on_ him. It felt dirty, out here even more so, and heat conquered his cheeks in a violent red. He wanted to be quiet, stay still, so _they_ couldn’t hear him, but he physically couldn’t, moaning and hiccupping, spit running down the skin of his ass. K’s fingers pulled his legs apart wider and sneaked a finger in next to his tongue and Proko was so fucking hard it _hurt._ It felt like an eternity and Joey’s jaw must’ve been fucking _aching_ by now but he continued ravaging his ass (he whined in embarrassment) until three of his fingers were comfortably in him before pulling away and sitting up, gleefully watching Proko’s face as he fell apart beneath his fingers.

“I’m too _good_ to you, am I, baby?” he purred as Proko slapped a hand over his mouth because his fingers had finally found the sweet, _sweet_ fucking spot and he was seeing fucking stars behind his tight-shut eyelids and he almost let out a moan/scream. His other hand was reaching around trying to hold onto something until Kavinsky grabbed it and put it on Proko’s dick and his eyes flew open, shaking his head wildly.

“I’m gonna cum, Joey, _stop_ , I can’t – can’t take it, _please_ ,” he whimpered, deep voice slipping high in panic and Kavinsky watched him with joy.

“You can cum, darling, come on, come for me, wanna fuck you when you’re all fucked out and twitching, baby,” he said, moving both their hands up and down his dick, so Proko bit down on his hand again, mewling around it because Kavinsky’s fingers were still relentlessly abusing his hole, rubbing at his prostate with every other thrust.

“Joey,” he gasped, so fucking close, but not quite – Kavinsky leaned over him to kiss him messily before pulling away again and peering into his fucking soul through the black of his eyes, “My dreamboy, _Proko_ ,” he cooed, and Proko was sent over the edge and it felt like being thrown down a fucking waterfall in _space_ , or whatever.

But before he could even come down again, his legs were being pushed against his chest as Kavinsky slipped into him, too hot and throbbing and he wailed at the stretch of it, his insides all curling up in over-sensitivity. Kavinsky began fucking into him forcefully, his eyes not leaving Proko’s face for one second, giving no mind to his whimpering and trashing at the stimulation-over-kill of it all, mouth hanging wide open in pain/pleasure. Kavinsky came soon after with a growl, teeth latching onto Proko’s neck, sure to leave the biggest mark yet. He let go of Proko’s legs which uselessly slumped down around his waist and sunk against Proko’s chest, breathing heavily.

Finally, Proko’s legs stopped twitching involuntarily and he wrenched his eyes open and wiped the spit from his mouth, hesitantly twisting Kavinsky’s dark hair between his fingers as the other boy calmed down. But the serenity of it all didn’t last long. Kavinsky’s chin carving painfully into his sternum to look up at him and he smiled at him. He looked like a parasite demon clinging to Proko’s heart right through his chest. The second of silence was heavy but the words that came after felt like being ripped to pieces.

“You know, Proko, I didn’t _make_ you this way,” he said and Proko’s eyebrows furrowed together in confusion. Kavinsky turned his head onto his cheek again, probably hearing his racing heartbeat.

“I didn’t _make_ you love me,” he continued and maybe he also heard how Proko’s heart stopped for a whole fucking moment, “I know you like to think that I’m this evil Dr. Frankenstein and made you my perfect, obedient little creature, but I _didn’t_.” Tears were rolling down Proko’s cheeks in shock. But if he was being honest, he had known that all along.

“This is all _your_ choice, dreamboy,” Kavinsky finished, and closed his eyes, breath soon slowing as he fell asleep. The trees around Prokopenko were whispering, in Latin, and Proko didn’t know what they were saying, because Kavinsky always skipped Latin class and Prokopenko went where Kavinsky went except when Kavinsky told him to go somewhere else: _armor est necem._ Proko thought that staying dead would’ve been less painful, if he was being honest.


End file.
